Sharing Sentiments
by Tara Laurel
Summary: When John gets into a car that is most certainly not Mycroft's, Sherlock assumes the worst and tails the presumed kidnappers. Angst, friendship, hurt, all that good stuff. Oneshot set during ASiB.


**TITLE: Sharing Sentiments**

**RATING: **T (I think I just rate everything I write this now to be safe)

**A/N: **I don't know why this came to me. I was trying to write more for "Wednesday" and this kept buzzing around my brain, distracting me. I had to get it out on paper or I'd never get to my other fics. Lots of angst! Hooray.

_Please read and review, many thanks._

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own Sherlock.

Sherlock stroked the strings of his violin absentmindedly as he wandered toward the window. He didn't quite know why he always had to watch his flatmate leave. Maybe it was his controlling and need-to-know nature. Maybe it was something else.

He never cared enough to consider it.

But he certainly did care enough to quirk a curious eyebrow at the stationary black car positioned quite purposefully right beside 221B. As John stepped outside and a brunette woman approached him, that curiously raised brow curved into a concerned one. He didn't recognize this darkly clad stranger from his brother's elite staff. She perfected the air of one of Mycroft's cronies, but something was definitely askew. She was far more flirtatious than any of Mycroft's other female employees going by her and John's body language, even if it was subtle. Why would his brother feel the sudden need to change his workers' tactics? John would go willingly, if not begrudgingly, without the added dramatics.

_Overcompensating?_

_Distracting?_

She was drawing John in, distracting him. From what?

_The car._

_Stupid._

He had noticed it, but then he too had been sidetracked by the woman and her suspicious behavior toward his friend.

It was remarkably similar to those that so often charioted Mycroft or his staff around London. The exact same make and model. Almost a perfect match.

Almost.

He was already heading for his bedroom when his phone buzzed. He knew exactly who it would be and what he would say. He wasn't going to answer it but then remembered John's safety was at stake.

"That wasn't me."

"I know," Sherlock answered coldly. "Keep your eyes on him, Mycroft."

"Of course." His brother's voice was apathetic and calm as always.

Sherlock hung up on the British government and impatiently shoved the device into his pocket. Throwing on some decent clothes and his coat, the detective dashed off down the stairs in flurry of fabric, anger – and worry.

Of course he would never admit that last one, even to himself.

Twice now since bringing his blogger into his life, John had been abducted. Both had very nearly gotten the doctor killed. The last instance being by Moriarty's lot. Moriarty. The criminal mastermind who had been quiet ever since their little introduction at the pool. The man who threatened to burn the heart out of him. He would definitely be clever enough to mimic Mycroft's certain style of kidnapping to outwit John, and had enough brass to do so right outside 221B. Right in front of Sherlock himself.

As he hailed a cab, Sherlock cursed himself for not retrieving John's gun from his flatmate's bedroom before his hasty exit. There was no time now. He jumped in the backseat and hollered at the driver.

Judging by the mysterious vehicle's direction, Sherlock could make an educated guess as to its course by simply digging out his mental map of the city. Just as he suspected, it only took a few turns to catch up to the car. He had the cab follow at a reasonable distance behind.

But then again, if it was Moriarty, the madman would want Sherlock to pursue him. To pursue John. Would want to see Sherlock dance.

What would the psychopath do to his friend? If strapping him to a bomb had been the consulting criminal's idea of saying "hello", what could possibly be stage two?

_No._

He couldn't afford to think like that.

_Sentiment._

John was, for the moment, perfectly fine and unharmed. There would be no need to restrain or subdue the doctor while he was voluntarily sitting in their backseat. They wouldn't touch him until arriving at their desired destination.

They seemed to be driving clear across London, taking every side street possible and even backtracking and going in a few circles at times.

_Odd._

If Moriarty wanted Sherlock to follow, would he really waste time with such escapist antics? Maybe for the fun of the game. The thrill of the chase. Sherlock could sympathize with that.

But something still felt, off.

He couldn't afford confusion when John's life was at stake.

John, who giggled with him at crime scenes and laughed along with him while sitting in Buckingham Palace. Who was just as amused and impressed by Sherlock's deduction skills, as he was by the detective stealing an ashtray. The doctor, who annoyingly cared enough to search the flat on one of his supposed "danger nights", as Mycroft called them. While Mycroft did so out of duty, John was truly trying to protect and help him. He would outwardly scoff at such sentiment, but even he couldn't ignore the little piece of him that wanted to be touched by it. The blogger, who had been abducted twice because of his association with the detective, and had still yet to walk out the doors of 221B for good. John, his flatmate. His friend.

Sherlock was sure he would never forgive himself if this kidnapping resulted in any harm coming to that friend.

The imposter car turned off onto a deserted street and Sherlock had the driver pull off to the side and stop. Flinging what he halfheartedly assumed was the correct amount of money at the man, the detective bolted from the cab and started after the vehicle on foot. Even if Moriarty wanted him to find John, Sherlock didn't want to make it easy for the madman to find him.

The building definitely had Mycroft's certain flare for secret rendezvous locations.

The sleuth slipped through the rooms and halls of the abandon structure without detection quite effortlessly. Again, a bit unnerving. No brainless henchmen. No secreted away snipers.

He was stalking toward the sound of friend's voice when he heard it.

Not John's voice.

_Hers._

The Woman.

Irene Adler, talking, conversing, with John.

And very much not dead.

"Tell him you're alive."

His friend's icy warning sliced through his shock.

Sherlock recognized that tone. The military man seeping through the gentle doctor's facade. The Captain taking control and delivering threats in a way John did only on behalf of others.

The detective's still reeling mind was sent back to that day at the pool. To John seizing Moriarty from behind. The man willing to sacrifice himself for Sherlock.

"He'd come after me."

She was right about that.

"I'll come after you if you don't."

There it was again. Captain John Watson. Ready to defend and protect and help his friends without a moment's hesitation. Willing to hunt down a woman probably just as dangerous as Moriarty if she put her clever mind to it, for Sherlock. And it wasn't even to save him from the physical danger of a bomb or bullet.

"Mmm, I believe you."

The man wasn't fond of the patronizing air of her voice. She underestimated John. But then again, everyone so often did. Even Sherlock.

"You were dead, on a slab." John's volume was growing and Sherlock could easily envision the look on the man's face. "It was definitely you."

John hadn't seen the body. And yet he unflinchingly trusted Sherlock's judgment. He trusted Sherlock to have made the correct identification, and that he told John the truth. He didn't for a second think Sherlock could have been wrong, or could have been in on Irene's little masquerade. The loyalty behind John Watson never ceased to amaze him.

"DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep."

_Ah. Of course. The measurements._

She was talking about the DNA tests to John because, as a doctor, that is what the man relied upon. But Sherlock had identified the body by its measurements. Measurements that Irene Adler had very purposefully given him and had him make it a point of remembering.

_Clever._

"And I bet you know the record-keeper."

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at his friend's cheek despite the dark circumstances.

"I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear."

"Then how come I can see you, and I don't even want to?"

Another proud smirk and sad smile, followed by a frown as the shock and sorrow threatened to creep back inside the detective.

"Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping and now I need it back, so I need your help."

Sherlock almost audibly scoffed at that. He knew John's answer before it flew from his friend's mouth.

"No."

"It's for his own safety."

_Hmm. Interesting. Definitely more on the phone than typical blackmail. Already knew that. But something dangerous? How dangerous? Intriguing._

"So's this. Tell him you're alive."

Another person might have wavered at the soldier's warning words.

"I can't."

_Lie._

"Fine. I'll tell him, and I still won't help you."

Sherlock could almost feel the repressed rage radiating from the man from the other side of the wall and couldn't help but somewhere deep inside of him feel – affected – by the anger for him.

He listened to the familiar retreated footfalls.

"What do I say?"

_Hm. Very interesting. Desperate, perhaps?_

"What do you normally say?! You've texted him a lot."

Even Sherlock couldn't honestly say he wasn't in some small way shaken by the sudden shout of fury. He also felt more pride. Pride for the man willing and brave enough to stand up to this woman. Respect for the man who had deduced the sender of said texts long ago.

"Just the usual stuff."

_There is nothing usual about you, Irene Adler._

"There is no usual in this case."

Sherlock's lips twitched upward as his flatmate echoed his thoughts before the frown took over again.

"'Good morning'; 'I like your funny hat'; 'I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner.'; 'You looked sexy on Crimewatch. Let's have dinner.' 'I'm not hungry. Let's have dinner.'"

Sherlock was no idiot, and despite his brother's remarks, not at all uneducated in the realm of sex or flirtation.

"You, _flirted,_ with Sherlock Holmes?"

"At him. He never replies."

"No, Sherlock always replies – to everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word."

"Does that make me special?"

_I don't know._

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Are you jealous?"

"We're not a couple."

"Yes you are. There. 'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'"

Sherlock fumbled for his phone. He had to turn it off before it gave away his location.

"Who – who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but – for the record – if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."

"Well, I am. Look at us both."

He was still fishing for the device as he heard John's rueful laughter. He had it in his hand just as the familiar female sigh sounded. Switching his phone off, Sherlock abruptly and hurriedly turned and walked away.

He didn't desire to be confronted by either person. Focusing on listening to and dissecting their conversation had been able to distract him from the emotional whiplash.

He was still fighting with himself as he made it back to the main road and flagged down a cab. This was sentiment. He didn't feel such things.

And yet, there it was, ripping into him regardless.

He didn't speak when the driver attempted to make friendly conversation. He neglected to even look at the man for the entire ride. Closing his eyes, Sherlock attempted to retreat into his mind palace. To escape from these unwanted emotions.

And it certainly had been a whirlwind of them.

From fear for John to confusion over his kidnapping, followed harshly by the shock of Ms. Adler's return from the grave. The relief over John's safety, the bitter betrayal, the hurt, anger, all of it burned inside the self-proclaimed sociopath.

He had the cabbie stop short of Baker Street, needing to walk the remainder of the way.

So close to his home, and he felt so utterly lost. She had fooled him, again. Nobody bested Sherlock Holmes. And she had done so twice.

He was still trying to sort through the unwanted thoughts and feelings that fogged his brain when he came upon 221B.

And then, just like that, his focus sharpened. His sights cut through the fog, searing into the markings upon the door. His problems forgotten.

_Break in. Professional._

He would holler at his brother later for the obvious failure of his supposed security detail and surveillance system.

Cautiously, Sherlock pushed the door open and carefully placed his hand onto the opaque glass window of the interior door before pressing it open as well. Stepping slowly inside, his eyes shot to the ajar door of 221A. Continuing to scan his surroundings, his gaze fell to the floor.

_Cleaning supplies. Pair of rubber gloves. Duster. Sanitizer spray. Toilet brush. Disinfectant._

_Mrs. Hudson._

Mrs. Hudson wasn't a flighty woman. She wasn't one to leave her door agape or her bucket of cleaning materials left carelessly around.

From the silence that permeated from his landlady's flat, there was no one inside. The whole floor was quiet. That left only one option.

Sherlock drew closer to the steps then, his deductive stare stalling at the wall, and the telling marks that newly decorated it.

_Black streak. Shoe. Male. Size 10. Walking backwards up the stairs. Feeling way up stairs with feet. Why? Hands busy. Busy why? Dragging something._

He took in the second marking and felt his blood slowly turning to ice and boiling simultaneously.

_Or someone._

_Indentation. Peeling of wallpaper. Caused by fingernails. Woman. Facing backward. Desperate. Fighter. Stubborn. Clever. _

He brushed a finger against the dent.

_Depth indicates woman with longer fingernails. _

He didn't need any further evidence to know the truth of exactly what had happened on that staircase. His mind had already started playing out the scene as he lifted his head. He could see Mrs. Hudson being hauled up the steps, envision her struggle and screams.

_Three men. Middle aged. _

Sherlock stared at that spot up the stairs for a stretching and simmering moment. If he imagined he was being assaulted by emotions before, he was sadly mistaken. This was something much more overpowering and all consuming.

He reached back and retrieved the anger he had been trying to bury ever since hearing The Woman's voice. He let it stew inside of him, joining with the ire that was searing inside his soul.

Just as he had witnessed a different side of John when Sherlock was threatened, whoever was up there with Mrs. Hudson was going to see a similar side to the detective. No one came into his home and hurt his landlady without paying a painful penance.

Maybe these emotions weren't such a terrible thing after all, he darkly mused as he ascended the stairs, ready to unleash said sentiments on certain unsuspecting strangers.

People were always telling him to act more human. To care. To share. He believed the phrase John had employed once was to "get things off your chest".

Well, Sherlock was certainly ready to share now.


End file.
